The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

“Ashkr,” he said. “I have no idea what it is that Christopher so objects to in your plans. But I can assure you that if you grant my companions and me safe progress to the Royal Prince, if you offer us your protection and do your best to fulfil that duty, then I shall exert every ounce of my considerable influence to ensure that you are granted haven in this kingdom.”

  Ashkr frowned. “You able make this kind of promise, Tabiyb? You this kind of man? You have such power?”

  Razi snorted. Wynter heard the bitterness in his voice when he said, “Yes, Ashkr. I most certainly have.”

  “Even …” Ashkr hesitated, his eyes dropped to Razi’s hands. He touched Razi’s dark skin. “Even though you man of colour?”

  Razi’s jaw tightened. “Yes, Ashkr. Even though I am a man of colour.”

  “I would think it bode very well for the People,” said Ashkr softly. “That man of colour be permitted have such influence here.”

  Ashkr looked across at his people again. Wynter saw him find Sólmundr. The wiry man was hunched forward expectantly, his eyes glued to his friend.

  “I believe you, Tabiyb,” murmured Ashkr, still gazing across the sun-filled camp at Sólmundr. “I believe you do your best for us, and the People maybe really find a home here.”

  Wynter saw Sólmundr scan his friend’s face, saw the hope in his eyes as he tried to read Ashkr’s expression. Ashkr’s mouth tightened. He held Sólmundr’s gaze for a moment, then he shook his head. Sólmundr’s hope instantly drained away and Wynter’s heart clenched in anxiety and guilt at the grief in his face. For the briefest of moments the two men stared desolately at each other. Then Sólmundr nodded curtly and sat back. Ashkr’s face hardened, his brows drew down, he set his jaw.

  “My sister is right,” he said, rising to his feet. “We will move fast now. We fulfil our duty.” He glanced down at Razi. “And we get you to the prince, Tabiyb, that you may fulfil your duty. Thank you.” He reached forward, smiling, and Razi numbly accepted his handshake. Thank you for truth,” he said, then turned and strode away.

  As he entered the circle, Ashkr lifted his arms and yelled in Merron. The warriors all lurched to their feet in joyful relief and the tall man was momentarily engulfed in their noisy ranks as he made a loud and resolute proclamation. Christopher and Sólmundr remained seated, their faces blank.

  Razi got to his feet, rubbing his hands on his thighs. Wynter stepped to his side, her heart itchy with the conviction that somehow, something huge had just slipped irretrievably from their grasp.

  “You under our protection now, Tabiyb,” said Úlfnaor, handing Razi his sword and knife. “We take you the rest of the way. We keep you as safe as we can.”

  Razi bowed absently. Wynter took her weapons from the Aoire and leaned to peer around him, trying to keep Christopher in her sight. Úlfnaor turned to follow her gaze.

  Christopher was helping to get Sólmundr to his feet. He looked angry and upset, and when Wynter and Razi tried to catch his eye he pointedly turned away, shoved his shoulder under Sólmundr’s arm and helped Ashkr lead him off between the tents and out of sight.

  “Give him time,” said Úlfnaor. “He rage that you go against him, but sometimes it hard to see there is two sides to one truth, nach ea?” He slapped Razi on the shoulder. “Come,” he said. “We put you to work, eh? You help tidy up this Loups-Garous mess. It take your mind off things.”

  Wari took Razi into the forest to dig the Wolves’ graves, and Wynter was commandeered to construct the drying frames necessary for the meat and hides that the Merron were harvesting from the Wolves’ dead horses. The work was obviously designed to keep the two of them separated and out of mischief, and Wynter spent the morning under the watchful eye of a small group of men and women, while the majority of the Merron occupied themselves in some secret industry, deep in the forest.

  Christopher and the lords retreated to Ashkr’s puballmór and remained there. Over the course of the day, Wynter found herself staring across the rippling heat haze, wondering what was going on within the silent, sun-blasted walls of the tent.

  A small pile of Loups-Garous’ belongings was deposited in the centre of camp, and the Merron came and went, helping themselves. Wynter didn’t even bother looking; she had no desire to own anything tainted with the smell of Wolf. But when Razi returned from the forest to collect the second body, she was surprised to see him stride over and crouch to root in the pile, his back to her. He seemed to be looking for something in particular, and after a moment Wynter saw him draw his dagger and set to worrying at something hidden from her sight.

  Just as she was rising to her feet, Razi straightened and thrust his find into the ammunition pouch on his belt. He stood staring down at the pile of rich tack and finery, and something in the furious set of his shoulders stopped Wynter from crossing to his side. He glowered once in the direction of Ashkr’s tent. Then he spun on his heel, strode back to Wari, heaved the remaining body across his strong shoulders and stalked into the shadows of the trees.

  Wynter went back to her work.

  Quite early in the evening, the Merron began to trickle back through the trees, and Wynter found herself no longer needed at the drying frames. For a long, indecisive moment, she stood gazing at Ashkr’s resolutely quiet tent. Then she turned and wandered through the murmuring activity of camp, looking for Razi.

  She caught sight of him, hunkered by one of the tents, deeply engrossed in a pantomime conversation with Wari and another man. Razi had something in his hands and they were all hunched over it, frowning. Razi handed it to the man. As Wynter approached, things seemed to come to a conclusion, and Razi stood and shook the man’s hand with the decisiveness of a bargain sealed.

  Wynter waved to catch his eye and he wandered over. His eyes widened as he took in her work-sullied clothing. “Good God, sis. What have you been doing, rolling in a trough of offal? You’ll breed flies!”

  “You’re hardly fit for court yourself, Razi Kingsson!”

  Razi looked down at himself. Stripped to the waist, he was filthy from digging the graves, his skin and trousers covered in mud and gore. “Oh!” he said, absurdly surprised. “Oh my.” He held up his grimy hands as if trying to fathom how they had come to be that way. “I’m foul!”

  Wynter took him by the elbow. “Come along,” she said. “Let us go wash.”

  As if on cue, the two of them paused and glanced back in the direction of Ashkr’s tent, hidden from them now by the rest of camp. Suddenly Wynter felt overwhelmingly exhausted and unbearably hot. Glancing up at Razi’s dirty face, she saw the same weariness in him. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and shook him gently. He glanced down at her. “Would you like a swim?” she asked.

  He nodded. Behind them, a steady gentle tapping started up, the sound of a small hammer striking metal. Wynter looked back. The man with whom Razi had been speaking was hunched near the door of his puballmór, beating some small piece of silver into shape.

  “Is he a smith, Razi? Have you commissioned some work?”

  “Aye,” he sighed. “But, I must confess, I am not certain I shall go through with the idea. I’m afraid it may, in fact, be tasteless and crass.” He grimaced at her. “I would like to think about it for a while, if I may, before discussing it?”

  Wynter studied his weary face. “All right, Razi,” she said gently.

  Smiling, Razi pushed back her hat, found a clean piece of skin and kissed her forehead. “Let us go swim.”

  An Lá Deireanach

  A couple of hours later they were strolling back across the plains, sun-dried and river-scoured, tired, hungry and refreshed, when Razi stiffened and came to an awkward halt. Wynter looked up to see Christopher striding across the grass, his hair flying.

  “Where have you been?” he yelled. “I’ve been looking for you!”

  He was carefully groomed, dressed in his cleanest clothes, the sleeves of his undershirt rolled to the shoulder. To Wynter’s amazement the tops of his arms were glittering with silver.
He came to a halt in front of them and she stared at the bear emblems decorating the bracelets at the tops of his arms.

  “Christopher,” she said. “Where…?”

  “We’ve been invited to dinner,” he said curtly. “It ain’t nothing formal. Just put on clean clothes.”

  “But Chris,” she said again, reaching for the bracelets.

  He shifted his arm from her touch. “Sól and Ash gave them to me. They’re a gift.” Wynter met his eye. Merron bracelets were much more than a simple gift. They were a pact. They were a promise. They meant you belonged. Christopher averted his gaze. “Dinner is in Ashkr’s tent,” he murmured. “Don’t be long.” He began to turn away.

  “Chris,” said Razi.

  Christopher came to a halt.

  “Don’t be angry,” said Razi.

  Christopher’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t turn back. “Go change your clothes,” he said. “I’ll see you at dinner.” And he strode off, heading down through the smoky camp to Ashkr’s tent.

  Razi went to run after him. Wynter caught his arm. “Razi,” she said, “the smith is calling you.” He turned to see the man waving at him from the door of his tent. “Go on, Razi,” urged Wynter gently. “Go conclude your business. I shall change my clothes. You can meet me at the tent when you are done. Go on, brother. Chris just needs some time.”

  “You would like more drink, Iseult?”

  Embla leant across to fill Wynter’s beaker, and Wynter was once again struck by the richness of the beautiful woman’s clothes. Nothing formal, my foot! she thought, tugging at her travel-worn shirt and straightening her britches. Curse you, Christopher Garron. Had I known the lords would deck themselves out like sultans, I might at least have polished my boots.

  Razi chuckled at something Ashkr was saying, and Wynter smiled, glancing his way. He was resting back against a cushion, his arm curled loosely around Embla’s waist, his long legs splayed perilously close to the remains of the dinner things. Wynter had to admit, this meal had been a wonderful idea. Strange at first, and stilted, it had not taken long for the Merron’s easy good humour, Razi’s smooth diplomacy, and the rather liberal distribution of wine, to ease the tension.

  You understand, Razi had said when they entered the tent. I have no intention of standing in the way of your duty, Embla? I do not presume to come into your life and tell you how to live. Whatever it is you must do, I shall respect it, as I respect you, totally and without question. Embla had kissed him, Ashkr had poured him a drink, and all had gone smoothly from there.

  This one night, thought Wynter, that’s all we need get through. One more night of their odd formalities, and then we shall be on our way, safer than ever. And within one week we shall be in Alberon’s camp.

  One week. It was hard to believe they were so close.

  Razi laughed again, bringing her attention back to Ashkr’s amusing story.

  Sólmundr, reclining against Ashkr on the far side of the tent, shook his head. “You never remembers that right, Ash! It was Úlfnaor, and not Wari, who the licence men throw in the river. But it was Wari what was so ill after. You remember? It was this that open his eyes to Soma? ’Till then he dangerous in heat with that crazy village woman who want for him to kill her father.”

  “Oh, Frith an Domhain!” exclaimed Embla, sitting back from filling Wynter’s beaker, her eyes wide. “I forget all about that woman! She mad in the head! What it was that Wari see in her?”

  Ashkr grinned slyly and held a hand out in front of him to symbolise huge breasts. Razi spluttered his drink, coughing. “Ashkr!” he admonished.

  Sólmundr tutted. “You to have no heart, Ash. Embla right, you always thinks with your trousers.”

  Embla made a dismissive noise. “He right about that woman, though. I tell you now, it not Wari’s heart she capture.”

  “Stop that!” cried Sólmundr, laughing despite himself. “He in love with her!”

  “He in love with something,” said Ashkr slyly. “But I think it hid beneath her skirt.”

  Wynter blazed red and snorted with laughter She twisted her head against Christopher’s shoulder, looking up at him. He was very quiet, the only one of them who had yet to thaw. “Are you all right?” she whispered. He smiled tightly at her and nodded.

  The Merron subsided into chuckles. Sólmundr leaned stiffly forward to help himself to a drink, and Ashkr rested back against his cushion, sighing happily. He ran his hand up his friend’s back, his eyes roaming the walls of the tent. Gradually some of the joy left his face. “It get late,” he said softly.

  There was a moment of heavy silence as the Merron noblemen regarded the growing shadows on the walls of the tent. Sólmundr sat back, his face grave, and Ashkr draped his arm around the wiry man’s shoulder.

  “Coinín,” said Embla, leaning forward to see him. “You light the fire-basins now.”

  “It’s not that dark yet,” murmured Christopher.

  Razi glanced at his friend, disapproving of his sullen tone.

  Sólmundr glared. “You light the fire-basins now,” he commanded.

  Christopher got silently to his feet and lit a candle from Ashkr’s tinder box. He moved around the periphery of the tent with it, lighting the four fire-basins that the lords had waiting, and the puballmór was instantly filled with warmly dancing light. When he had lit the last basin, Christopher snuffed the candle and stood for a moment, his shadow thrown long against the wall. Wynter glanced at him, but he just continued to stand there, gazing down at the neat pile of weapons they’d left by the door.

  Behind her, Ashkr teasingly challenged Razi to another game of chess Sólmundr objected, claiming he should have first right to challenge, now that his body was free of Razi’s opium. Razi dryly offered to take them both on, playing two boards at once, and there was a loud chorus of approval from the Merron lords.

  “My man has balls,” crowed Embla.

  “Oh?” countered Ashkr. “Still? I surprised you not wear them away yet. I amazed he can still to walk!”

  “Good God,” gasped Razi, mortified, “Ashkr!”

  Wynter laughed and looked once again at Christopher. He was still staring absently at the weapons. “Chris,” she called softly. “Are you all right?”

  He glanced quickly at her, placed the candle in Ashkr’s tinderbox, and crossed back to the company. But to Wynter’s surprise he did not return to her side, just ran his hand over her hair as he passed by, and edged around the dinner things to go sit between Razi and Sólmundr. “I’d like to see this game,” he said, smiling at his friend.

  Razi grinned, delighted at Christopher’s sudden warmth. He straightened expectantly, waiting for someone to offer a board.

  Embla was staring at him. “Tabiyb,” she whispered. “I want …”

  “We will play the game now!” said Ashkr loudly. Embla’s eyes darted to him. “We play chess, Sól and me. We beat the trousers off your man and then we see who has the biggest balls! We drink to it,” said Ashkr. “Yes? We drink to beating your man in chess.”

  “Aye,” whispered Embla. “Aye, Ash, we drink to that.”

  “Coinín,” said Sólmundr flatly. “You get drinks now.”

  Wynter caught Christopher’s eye as he rose to his feet. He was desperately unhappy. She tried to question him with her eyes but he turned away, rubbing his hands on his trousers, scanning the shadows at the back of the tent.

  “You drink, a chroí?” murmured Embla, running her hand along Razi’s face. “Drink to victory?”

  Razi nodded uncertainly.

  “Come help me, Embla,” said Christopher. “I don’t know where everything is.”

  As Embla rose to help Christopher, Razi looked across at Wynter. His dark eyes were troubled. Like Wynter, he felt this odd charge between the Merron. Outside, the dogs shifted, their chains clinking in the empty silence of the camp, Wynter turned to listen to the quiet sound. Ashkr’s soft voice drew her attention back to the company.

  “Tell me what you do this w
inter, Sól.”

  “I not want tell that now,” said Sólmundr, pulling his head away from Ashkr’s caressing touch. His friend drew him close, whispered please. Sólmundr closed his eyes. “I not want to, Ash,” he whispered.

  Embla and Christopher were coming around the edge of things now, a tray of six tiny silver beakers and a jug carried between them. Embla glanced at Sólmundr as she picked her way across the mats. “You tell it now, Sól,” she said. “Make Ash happy.” She knelt on one side of Razi, and Christopher knelt on the other. Between them, they began to set out the little beakers.

  Sólmundr laid his head back against Ashkr’s shoulder and stared up at the smoky ceiling. Ashkr kissed the side of his neck. “Tell me what you do this winter, Sól,” he murmured again. “Tell me where you go.”

  “I go with the tribe to the winter hunting ground,” began Sólmundr softly.

  Ashkr smiled and sat back against the cushion, his eyes closed. “Yes,” he said. He pulled Sól closer. “Then what you do?”

  “Then I leave the tribe in the valley,” continued Sólmundr, “and I go to our lodge on the mountain.”

  “Yes,” murmured Ashkr.

  Christopher uncorked the jug and began to fill the little beakers with thick, amber coloured liquid. Embla placed them, one at a time, before each member of the company.

  Sólmundr’s eyes were very bright now, gazing at the ceiling. His hoarse voice was as soft as the gentle-hiss of the fire-basins. “I hunt the little red deer,” he whispered. “I hunt good and I get much food for the winter. Much hide. I maybe hunt also the bear, and make for me a black fur coat.” Ashkr nodded. “And there not be any licence men, not either any cavalry, to harry us and spoil our winter rest.”

  “Ash,” said Embla softly, leaning forward and offering her brother his drink. Sólmundr and Ashkr straightened, took their beakers, held them solemnly, waiting. Embla lifted hers. Wynter and Razi glanced at Christopher. When he took his, and, without looking up, raised it, they followed suit. Wynter looked down at her drink. It was very heady, smelling strongly of resinous honey.